Would You Believe This Was Intended to be a Four Word Post?
So. Fucking. Bitter. Lately.
Pretty sure my head’s going to explode.
Maybe it’s the heat.
Actually, pretty sure it’s the fact that I NEVER do ANYTHING for myself, EVER, and even when I do, it’s somehow backass because someone else WANTS me to do it.
Seems like even when I do end up doing something JUST for me (like go to PTown ‘cause I’ve never been), it turns into a shitfest somehow (racist sexist transphobic bigotry parade from my so-called friend).
Maybe it’s the fact I have WORKED MY ASS OFF ALL SUMMER and have just about nothing to show for it. I owe people money, I haven’t paid off my card, and I will NOT be getting that cameraphone. Maybe it’ll even out with this next paycheck though. It should be pretty good. It better fucking be. I deserve some jeans that don’t have fucking holes in them.
Maybe it’s the fact that I WORK MY ASS OFF all school year for good grades that no one in my family acknowledges even though, deep down, somehow, that’s the only reason I work for them, because my sisters got sports trophies AND good grades, and I had to earn their love by surpassing the girls SOMEHOW.
Maybe it’s the fact we WORK OUR ASSES off for this leaky, smelly, crooked apartment, and our landlord lives IN THE SAME HOUSE AS US, only his side has fancy trim, even floors, doesn’t leak, and is full of things like big-screen plasma T.V’s that OUR MONEY FUCKING PAID FOR.
Maybe it’s the fact that other people work THEIR asses off only to get fucking fired because some fucking dickbag higher up the fucking ladder got mad because he couldn’t see far enough down her fucking shirt.
Maybe it’s the fact I WORK MY ASS OFF trying to save the people I care about, and I-along with other people who HAVE BEEN THERE-do everything in my/our power to keep them safe, and they go off and get themselves further fucked just to prove me wrong.
Maybe it’s the fact I WORK MY ASS OFF trying to save people I don’t even fucking KNOW, and it helps, sometimes, and they’re welcomed into the fold, sometimes, only then they go off and get syphilis, or shatter everyone because they didn’t get voted onto fucking eboard, or attack everyone I love because they’re bored, or run off to start a new, better, more brain-washing, less-inclusive version of what I’ve been working towards for years. And then they go away and I feel better… and then they come BACK, with ALLIES, to do it AGAIN only BIGGER. And everyone LETS them. Everyone is MOWED DOWN BY THE OPPRESSIVE BRAINLESS ARMY OF RETARD. I’m so tired. Sorry for that image in all of your heads.
Maybe it IS the heat. I love what I do. Usually.
I’ll sleep with the A.C. on tomorrow. That’ll help. And we’re cleaning out our house on Wednesday. That’ll help. And I’m going to pick up my paycheck at Wal-Die and use that to pay off this fucking credit card. That’ll help. I’ll see Jess tomorrow, and most likely Lesley and some Pride kids this weekend, and Lillian and some other Pride kids next weekend. That’ll help. I feel like I haven’t seen anyone all damn summer, so this will be a good thing. And school will start soon, so my hours will drop dramatically. That’ll help.
We’ll have to wait and see if school itself actually helps, though.
It probably will. I love what I do. Usually. Even if I never get any type of acknowledgement for it, even if random people who have never even met me think they can do it better (WONDER WHO PUT THAT IDEA IN THEIR HEADS), even if people who do FAR less work than I do get paid while I don’t, and then bitch that I don’t work hard enough.
That’s fine. I don’t do it for the recognition. I do it because I believe that someone, somewhere, is benefitting from the way I do things and the work I take on. I do it because I hope that that someone will be able to get their feet under them, and do that work somewhere else, and help someone else. And that THAT someone will help someone ELSE. And when a Pride kid comes out to their parents and doesn’t get kicked out, that’s it. When someone comes to their first meeting and leaves with a new sense of belonging, a new sense of SELF, a new belief that they CAN find a place to belong in this big cruel stupid world, that’s it. When a classmate writes an article about how mad they are that tuition went up, and realizes a hidden talent, or a way to get their voice heard that they didn’t know existed, that’s it. When someone’s name on our table of contents gets them an internship in the design department, that’s it. That’s my starfish. I’m making the world better, I swear it. One starfish at a time.
Of course, if this hippie thing I keep insisting on doing doesn’t prove to be a huge success in the near future, I may move on to Plan B, and murder anyone and everyone ever involved in the Army of Retard. I may, in fact, have to murder them by using the sharpened bones of my ex-roommates.
I may have to illustrate that and give it to Collie.
All I want is a day off, a big tree, and unlimited laptop battery. And lemonade. Bottomless lemonade. These things would enable me to write the twelve poems and three stories floating around in my head, edit the rest of my magazine, play around with the paint program and my pictures (which I love to do but NEVER HAVE TIME TO), clean all the quotes out of my phone, write and post all the back stories I’ve been meaning to put onto LJ (Wal-Die stories, my boss getting fired, PTown, etc), sort out and post and caption my pictures from the casino, Collie’s birthday, PTown. I want to finish my fiction story. I want to send something to a magazine, even if I get rejected, even if I get ignored, because at least I tried, at least I’ve started. I want to update my blog more than twice a month. I want to journal more than once a month.
It’s August 17th. There are two weeks left before school. I am bound to have ONE of those days off. I may not finish my story, I may not clean my room out entirely, I may not write up my club manual, I may not have a new phone, I may not magically be discovered by a publishing agency and have my blog and/or life story transformed into a best-selling book. But. I can promise myself an afternoon with my laptop and a tree.